


Rewind (Arc I of Lux Aeterna)

by BrytteMystere



Series: Chronicles of Narnia Fics [1]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Aslan is not Jesus in this series, But keep in mind future arcs WILL be PEDMUND, Cute Kids, Edmund is Edmée here, Female Edmund Pevensie, Gen, Immortal beings WON'T follow human morality, Keep that in mind at all times please, So that's my warning, The Pevensies being adorable children, This is Arc I of Lux Aeterna, Will probably remain Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 06:51:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10871379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrytteMystere/pseuds/BrytteMystere
Summary: Knowingly or not, our past keeps influencing our future. Especially, it seems, when it comes to those not born from the Lion's song."Beware, dear children. Immortals will always get their due..."





	1. A New Rotation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SeeCee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeCee/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein a new story begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SeeCee, it’s taken me forever but heeey. Here it is, first chapter of the rewritten Lux Aeterna (because reasons). Many thanks to elecktrum and to NickeltheRed, who beta’d this for me!  
> Quick reminder, this is mostly based in the Movieverse (well, the first two movies).
> 
>  **Warnings:** Aslan is not Jesus in this fic, there WILL be incest down the line (Pedmund), mentions of war, possible disturbing imagery due to immortal deities who act like the Fair Folk. Also, my knowledge of The Magician’s Nephew comes from wikis, so it may be wrong, but then this is mainly based on the Movieverse, so...

_Narnia, year 987_

            The night could have been any other, had the White Queen not been able to tell otherwise.

            Alas, Jadis had learned from quite an early age not to ignore her instincts, especially if such instincts came to her with an impending sense of _doom_ during her yearly Harvest. Not that the feelings currently shifting within her soul were new, for she had already experienced them, if only once before.

            Back then, it had been the final confirmation that her sister would win the war for Charn. Those memories weren’t at all comforting, for it had meant using the Deplorable Word for the very first and last time, emptiness and absolute loneliness following soon after, a spell to preserve herself muttered from chapped lips. A boy, much, much later, calling her from her slumber.

_Pale skin, chocolate eyes widening in pain as she..._

            No.

            _No_ , she hadn’t harmed that child now, had she? And his eyes had been blue, not brown.

            A drop of her blood fell upon the iced floor and Jadis’ focus was bought back to her task. After all, her wand had been losing effectiveness, as had her cordial, giving clear signs that the blood that ran through them had at long last been rendered nearly useless, needing replacing.

            In Charn, she wouldn’t have needed them. To require aids to impose her will in the world would have been a shame none of her bloodline could have accepted. Seemingly ages had passed and yet Jadis could distinctly remember one of her distant cousins being struck from the royal line due to the very same evil that now plagued her. Regrettably, within the Lion’s realm her magic was rendered mostly useless, only able to affect the world through these... _props_ she had been forced to figure out.

            She had not been born in Narnia. She had not sprouted from the Lion’s song, as everything else had. Thusly, Jadis was the exception to many of the rules that fell upon the Great Cat’s creatures. Most of her spells didn’t work, and neither did her Deplorable Word, but her blood, as her soul, was still intrinsically magical. Having to channel it through her wand and her cordial embarrassed her still, but not having to worry about her youth fading and taking with it the apex of her power, she could easily deal with the cons of having tasted an Apple of Youth. So she painstakingly pierced a small hole into her inner thigh, and watched another bright blue drop slip into her cordial, her wand’s handle already replenished, new iced extremes shining under the moonlight.

            Three droops later her cordial was satisfyingly full again, and so the half-giant half-djinn turned at last towards the humanoid ice sculpture her fallen drop of blood had shaped.

            As she approached it, the figure became more and more distinct, the glamour invoked by her blood granting it temporally different colours and textures, ‘till before her stood what she could have mistaken by a beardless dwarf had her whole being not _singed_ with rage and _want_ as she hadn’t experienced since reducing all life in her home-world to ashes.

            He, for it _was_ a he, had to be a young son of Adam (human? The Lion had done their best to imitate some sort of deity for the human world, so the terminology was confusing). Pale skin, dark hair, chocolate eyes... She would have sworn she knew him, and yet she was sure she had never seen such a boy in her life.

_Chocolate eyes widening in pain, as her broken wand pierced him right through the heart, no stopping ‘till his spine snapped broken as well, a furious –and yet, so delightfully desperate– scream reaching her ears from somewhere behind her, echoing in the distance because yes, yes, **finally** she **had** him, this little foolish boy who ever thought he could escape her..._

            Jadis was inherently magical, and as such, dreams that allowed her a peek into her future weren’t an impossibility, even if any foresight usually manifested in overwhelming instincts running through her veins, just like before.

            Oh, but she knew. The dream-vision was quite clear.

            The boy in front of her couldn’t be but one of the prophesised Four that would bring her doom. She should be already starting to plan how to end him and his siblings, for if she was having such premonitions it had to mean that at least the first had been conceived, and yet...

_He escaped her._

_She had him, and he **escaped**._

            Jadis had ever been possessive. Anything she considered hers she would keep, preferring its destruction over losing her power over it. Charn, her dead home-world, had been the most drastic example. And now, she just _knew_ that the boy would escape her. He had been _hers_ , he had _tasted her blood_ , and yet, somehow, he had managed to leave her side.

_Unfathomable._

_Impossible._

_Ridiculous._

            And yet... And _yet..._

            **_“I’ll have you,”_** she whispered to the statue of the boy as her hands cradled its head, nails digging into the texture of his pale skin as red liquid quickly became melting snow under her fingertips. **_“I’ll have you, and you’ll BEG me to keep you...”_**

            The conjured figure fully came apart under her strangling hold, but she didn’t care. Those eyes of his were burned into her memory. Jadis would recognise him anywhere.

_‘Have you put your prophecy in motion already, Great Cat? No matter. I’ll win. I’ll win, like I won against the frail humans you left ruling this absurd realm of yours. I’ll win, and my prize will be him, and I’ll show you, I WILL, how badly you’ve lost...’_

* * *

 

_Finchley, London (UK). Wednesday, 27 th April 1927_

            Helen Pevensie could hold her firstborn after no less than seven long and strenuous hours, exhausted beyond measure and yet happier than ever for at last holding in her arms the precious boy Henry and her had created after several years of fruitless attempts.

            She remembered, all the way back to mid-July, when she had had that awful nightmare, in which a large lion had dug into her baby bump, tearing her still-forming baby boy and devouring him in one large bite, and it made her hold her boy –Peter, she and her husband had decided to call him– closer to her chest.

            The nightmare had repeated all through July, leaving her exhausted and restless, swearing at times that she could _feel_ the phantom pains of the Lion tearing a child from the baby bump she _didn’t have_. Once said baby bump _did_ grow noticeable, though, in September, Helen had barely managed to deal with her fear.

_The Lion will take your baby from you._

_You’ll do nothing, and you’ll lose him, for it’s only by the Lion’s grace that you had him in the first place..._

            Peter calmly opened his eyes, teal blue orbs locked on hers, or more exactly, in her hair, which he seemed like quite a lot, before closing them again once he hooked up on her nipple again, as Helen slowly got used to the feeling of feeding her son, her husband’s glee almost palpable and brightening with each little swallow.

            She wouldn’t let herself be cowed. Her son was safely within her arms, healthy and feeding properly, Henry a comforting protective figure by their side.

            If it ever came the time, she knew both she and her husband would fight a thousand lions, if needed, to keep their precious baby safe and sound.

* * *

 

_Finchley, London (UK). Saturday, 19 th May 1928_

            Helen had been painstakingly typing her notes from her hand-written ones, when she felt again the already familiar weight of her son laying his head against her belly.

            It was strange, for Peter had turned out to be quite the quiet child, preferring to lose himself in the books Henry had gotten for him since the moment he learned to turn the pages, losing himself in the drawn pictures Helen herself had designed and coloured, all to make story time more entertaining... Not that Peter was difficult, not really.

            He could have a quick temper if he remained too long without seeing his mother’s dark hair and eyes –honestly neither Helen nor Henry could understand the obsession their child had with her hair– or if he was interrupted when he chose to pick up a stick and hit a wall for a while, his body wavering with every hit, teal glare focused on the precise spot he kept beating with an intensity that had scared them more than once.

            _“Ed?”_ was her son babbling right then, nuzzling his head against her in a way that was weirdly reminiscent of the cat she had had back when she still lived with her parents.

_‘Ah... That again?’_

            Strange, indeed, very strange. Her son kept trying to cuddle her stomach as if he was trying to actually communicate with it. But then again, Peter had always been a strange baby and she loved him all the same, regardless of his too-focused-for-a-baby stares, or the way he would suddenly focus on hitting the wall as if he wanted to cut it down, or how he avoided all other children his age.

            And his first word. Of course, she and Henry been trying to get him to say the classic stuff. _Mum and Dad_ , so on and so on.

            But Peter’s first word... It had been _Ed._ Quickly followed by _mine_.

            And Helen didn’t really know what to think.

* * *

 

_Finchley, London (UK). Thursday, 31 st May 1928_

            After twelve days of being cuddled and followed, her firstborn trailing her steps as a lost kitten would, Peter stopped as suddenly as it had started.

            That afternoon, while Helen tried again to finish typewriting her notes, Peter gave one last, long look at her belly, pouting, before he poked it carefully. Then, to her absolute bewilderment, his eyes teared up and he dashed to a corner of the room, curling in on himself. Setting aside her typewriter and her notes, Helen Pevensie approached her son and gently tried to coax some sense from him.

            “What is it, dearie?”

            “That’ Su, Mum. That’ Su, not Ed...”

 

            Somehow, when one month later she learned that she was pregnant again, it didn’t really come as a surprise.

* * *

 

            The girl was born on the 16th of that December, on a Sunday afternoon. And her name was _Susan_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that the 19th May 1928 was a new moon night?


	2. Goodbyes and Welcomes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the Third is born, and the Fourth lies in wait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all those who have come here from the author’s note posted as the last “chapter” of _Lux Aeterna_ in the old story in AO3 and its version on ff.net, you’re welcome to this humble story of mine, with my deepest apologies for the nuisance. But I realised neither ff.net nor AO3 would show updates (since as I said in the summary on ff.net, this fic of mine is currently going through a rewrite), I decided to make a new story here, with the rewritten fic, in hopes that the updates will show properly. The whole planning part of the rewrite is done, so as you’ll notice, this is only the second chapter of the first arc of what I plan to be quite the story. I could keep going on and on about this whole deal, but I’ll instead shut up and let you have the actual second chapter. Just remember till I get to chapter 12 in the rewrite, the old version of the story will still be accessible in ff.net (link above).
> 
>  **Warnings:** Immortal deities who don’t follow human morality codes, children being manipulated, Aslan is not Jesus here, Jadis being Jadis, not book compliant.
> 
>  
> 
> **Thanks again to Elecktrum and NickeltheRed for betaing this!**

_The Woods Between the Worlds_

          A queen danced gracefully throughout the trees and the ponds, a gentle breeze caressing her auburn curls with each gentle motion as her garnet skirts billowed around her legs, the golden thread embroidered within glinting each time the perpetual full moon’s light fell upon it. She ran, soon pirouetting on her tiptoes to the rhythm of a melody only she could hear, never tiring and never stopping, least her loneliness come to the forefront of her thoughts again.

_‘The gentle touch of the grass at my feet, the warm breeze caressing my skin...’_

_“It’s my turn now... I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry... I must go...”_

_‘Move! Move! **Move**...’_

          She wasn’t meant to be alone, this much she could still remember. She wasn’t meant to be alone and soon enough she wouldn’t be, but the wait was tortuous, her loneliness absolute and the woods, never ending.

          Unable to join the wind as most of those who came from the ponds did –seeing as her body refused to turn into dust no matter what–, the queen could do nothing but remain in motion, doing her best to stall the painful thoughts that always threatened to tear her mind to shreds, well aware that with every uncountable instant more and more of her memories were stripped away but powerless to stop the process.

          Constant motion kept the panic away, as warm embraces had done before... before...

_‘What did that even feel like? Was someone by my side? Were they taken away too? Why–’_

          Her dance became more frenetic.

_“I’m so–”_

Everything would be alright. She just... had to endure the loneliness for a little while, and what had been taken from her would be given back... Or, so she hoped.

* * *

 

_Finchley, London (UK). Tuesday, 18 th March 1930_

          Helen had been doing her best not to tremble –burrowing further into the veritable blanket nest her husband had ended up making around her–, and worrying about the one-year old baby in the cradle by the right side of their bed when she heard muffled footsteps approaching.

_‘ **Seriously!?** ’_

          Henry was already fully asleep by her left –somehow managing to sleep with just one blanket without freezing to death– and he was a rather heavy sleeper, so Helen took a fortifying breath in. She could almost feel the irritation start to bubble under her skin.

 _‘Should I simply let him sleep here?’_ she mused. _‘Is it worth getting out of bed?’_

          To be honest, she was tired, wanted nothing but to finally fall asleep... and she really, _really, **really**_ didn’t want to leave the warmth of her blanket nest. However, since early that morning Peter seemed to have taken a liking to cuddle by her belly again, so even if she took him back to his room and tucked him back into his bed, the toddler would be tiptoeing into her room soon enough. After almost three years, she knew his stubbornness well enough to tell when it would suppose a problem.

_‘Bloody relentless!’_

          That she felt constantly at the edge of hypothermia (well, figuratively) certainly wasn’t improving her mood.

          “Mum?”

          Sure enough, her little tyke had entered her room as quietly as he could, taking advantage of the wool socks she had left him in and the fact that she and her husband had left the door ajar –as his own had been– to be able to hear him in case he needed them at any point of the night. What little moonlight slipped in from the window to her left managed to make her toddler’s pleading eyes visible enough.

_‘Why. Good lord, **why**...’_

          It was hopeless. Any attempt of keeping a stern expression vanished with a glance at those teal eyes of his... Which certainly didn’t mean she didn’t try to do so.

          Some effect it had, because Peter fidgeted a bit, glance falling to his feet, before he let a small breath out and glanced back at her, this time an adorable pout joining his puppy eyes.

          “Mum, please...”

_‘... Now that’s just unfair.’_

          Her poor attempt at sternness melted, and with a long-suffering sigh, she nodded for him to get into the bed, helping him along when his little legs couldn’t bring him fully on. Once there, Peter moved swiftly over her blanket nest towards the centre of the bed, Henry scooting further to his left to give their son more space, if mostly on instinct than any conscious awareness of the toddler slipping under their blankets.

          Helen couldn’t keep herself from wincing when cold air slithered in with her son, but soon enough she warm again, her little tyke safely nestled against her, and with a last glance at the happily slumbering baby girl –warm and comfy, she knew, in the cradle that had been her brother’s no less than a year before–, she finally fell asleep.

* * *

 

_Finchley, London (UK). Sunday, 13 th April 1930_

          Her third pregnancy took her quite by surprise. With this, Helen meant that her baby bump manifested apparently overnight. _Apparently_ , because she had to have been at very least three months in.

          To be honest, she hadn’t suffered any of the classical symptoms she had already associated to pregnancy: there had been no morning sickness, her breasts hadn’t felt sore or oversensitive, and her work had kept her quite distracted from her period (well, more her _lack of it)_. So yes, it had been a surprise.

          The only strangeness she could note was her oversentiveness to cold, and she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to associate that to her pregnancy.

          “Mmmfff...”

          _Talking about babies_ , Helen temporarily stopped revising her notes about a rather difficult surgery that had left her with far too many headaches –for her patient had been lost and losing a patient remained a pain like a knife being twisted into her heart– to look first at her son, cuddled on her lap and nuzzling her belly from time to time, and then at her daughter, sitting by her feet on the carpet, passing the pages of her colouring book and stopping occasionally to scribble on it with one of her coloured chalks.

          Her children were growing healthy and strong. She was a proud mother, as Henry was a proud father, but she would have sworn that considering her daughter the most beautiful one-year-and-four-months-old she had ever seen was objectively true.

          Susan was beautiful: dark curls and azure eyes, long lashes and fair skin, rosy lips and cheeks, not to mention that she had a truly charming laugh.

_‘Truly, mine is most adorable daughter of all...’_

          As if feeling her mother’s eyes on her, Susan looked up at her, and Helen couldn’t keep herself from smiling and tenderly caressing her daughter’s soft curls.

_‘I’m a proud mum indeed...’_

* * *

 

_Finchley, London (UK). Friday, 5 th September 1930_

          If the pregnancy had been almost effortless, the birth itself was _tortuous_.

          Helen’s whole being was too taken by _pain_ to make much sense of anything. It didn’t mean that she was deaf to what was said in panicked mutterings, whenever her screams were interrupted by her need to breathe.

          _“... complications...”_

_“... not dilated enough...”_

_“–ush! Push! **PUSH, MRS PEVENSIE!** ”_

          She felt, _at last_ , the baby was _out_.

_‘My baby... Why haven’t I heard my baby?’_

          Helen Pevensie blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry guys... Like, not really but trust me?


End file.
